A Sure Refuge
by Jedi Amoira
Summary: Alistair, Morrigan, and Elan arrive at Dane's Refuge in search of food, information, and a chance to escape their troubles. DAO Spoilers. Probably complete. Complete for now, at least.
1. A Refuge of Scoundrels

Disclaimer-- As much as I wish otherwise, I do not own DAO. I do not own any of the characters there-in, including the female Cousland origin character, though I would like to think my interpretation of her is my own. I do not own the environment, events, dialogue, etc. I expect and will receive nothing from this story but the joy of paying homage to excellence. (Imitation, after all, is sincere flattery.)

Nonetheless, I do work hard on my little stories, and I love them. Please don't repost or reprint them without my knowledge. Further, like all fanfic writers, I am fueled by reviews. If you like and want more, please encourage me by telling me so. If you see something you dislike or think needs to be fixed, I will be happy to learn...but please be gentle!

Note-- This stand-alone fic is a fragment of what or may not eventually become a longer, more comprehensive fic. If I waited until that fic was in a condition to post, I would never post at all, and I wanted to post.

**I may eventually add a chapter previous to this one as well as one or two chapters following this one.**

Thanks to all the people who have added any of my stories as favorites or added me as a favorite author. Thanks to those few reviewers who have let me know they like my work. And a big thanks to those who have taken time to send me encouraging messages! If not for you, I probably wouldn't have gotten motivated enough to write and post this bit, so I hope you like it!

Fic Title Reference: "In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure **refuge**. The young they keep out of mischief; to the old they are a comfort and aid in their weakness, and those in the prime of life they incite to noble deeds." --Aristotle

Chapter Title Reference:

No matter that patriotism is too often the refuge of scoundrels. Dissent, rebellion, and all-around hell-raising remain the true duty of patriots.  
-- Barbara Ehrenreich

* * *

Elan eyed the sister a bit warily. She sincerely hoped the woman wasn't about to offer her a blessing. She'd accepted a blessing the morning before her home was laid to waste and her family along with it. She'd accepted a blessing before the entire army of Ferelden was laid to waste, including the king, the Grey Wardens, and Alistair's beloved mentor, Duncan. Accepting a third blessing would no doubt result in in the end of all known civilization and the subsequent destruction of all things remotely pleasant.

The sister, however, was looking over Elan's shoulder with a rather wary expression that made the hair on the back of Elan's neck stand up. Suddenly she had the oddest sensation of being cast back into the delirium of her Joining, as if the archdragon were looming over her, breathing down her neck, as it had loomed over her family in her dream.

But whatever had the sister's attention, it couldn't be darkspawn. The tavern smelled of nothing worse than fear and sweat. Everyone around them was so calm, so quiet... And it didn't seem as though Alistair sensed anything.

Before Elan had even finished registering as much, a heavy hand gripped her upper arm tightly enough to bruise. "Well, what have we here, boys?" a voice bellowed past her ear. "Weren't we just looking for a Grey Warden matching this very description? And everyone said they hadn't seen her?"

Elan forced herself to relax. "Now let's just sit down and talk about this before someone does something they regret," she cajoled with her teeth gritted.

Alistair stiffened beside her.

Elan waited, knowing all too well how he felt and why he wanted to object.

She longed to unleash her rage at the injustice of it all—this man's assumptions, the defamation of Grey Wardens who had given their lives for Ferelden just as this man presumably would, the death and destruction of all she'd ever known and loved...all but Woofus...all but Alistair—but she could not punish men for doing what they thought their duty.

Loghain would pay. Howe would pay. The archdemon would pay.

These men wanted the same things—the same justice...if only they could be made to believe it.

Alistair's stance eased by the smallest possible amount and she knew he understood as much. Understood and accepted. He didn't like it, but neither did she...and somehow she knew, she _trusted_ that Alistair knew and accepted _that _too. Her own tension eased, just a bit...but somehow the difference felt profound.

The sister, however, was speaking even as this unspoken exchange took place. "I doubt he would listen," she said sadly, but with absolute conviction. "He blindly follows his master's you not tell?"

"I am not the blind one! I served at Ostagar, where the teyrn saved us from the Grey Wardens' treachery!" the man insisted, rather proving the sister's point.

Elan stifled the urge to groan. Alistair didn't.

"Enough talk. You protect these traitors, sister, and you'll get the same as them." The man drew his sword.

Elan was tired of the grip on her arm, tired of being attacked without provocation, and just plain tired. She was also annoyed.

She jabbed her knee between the man's legs with more than enough force to jar his teeth, and followed it up with a good swift upward thrust of her hand directly into his nose. The man released her arm and staggered back with a curse, blood streaming down his face as he fought the urge to double over in pain.

Morrigan had her staff free even before Elan's foot hit the floor. A burst of magic jolted though the area, leaving the rest of the soldiers looking stunned. Woofus took advantage of their distraction to spring at them, knocking two of them down and digging into their limbs with his paws. Flecks of blood spattered about almost like rain drops.

The sister had backed up, not to run away or cower in fear as Elan had half-expected, but to circle behind the stunned and startled soldiers, jabbing at weak spots in their armor while they floundered about in confusion and Morrigan pelted them with bolts of magic.

By the time the leader had recovered enough to try rushing them again, Alistair and Elan had their weapons ready. Elan stepped neatly to one side as Alistair blocked the man's blow with his shield. Elan reached up and to the side, sliding her dagger neatly into the gap in the man's armor beneath his arm. Blood began to flow from the wound. Eventually it would pool about his fingers and interfere with his grip on his sword...if he lasted that long.

Alistair shoved his shield forward, using the man's sword and injured arm as a a lever to force him off-balance. Elan obligingly stuck a foot behind the man's leg, making him stumble.

"Enough," the man groaned, tumbling to the floor completely as Alistair rapped him with the pommel of his sword. "Maker, have mercy! We surrender!"

"Good," the sister said crisply, tucking the dagger back out of sight so quickly and so surreptiously Elan almost wondered if it even existed. "You hear that? They surrender, and we can all stop fighting now."

Elan wasn't quite ready to let bygones be bygones. "The Wardens didn't betray King Cailan," she informed the man at her feet. "Loghain did."

"I was there," the Commander insisted, in spite of his blood pooling on the floor, "the Wardens led the king to his death! The teyrn did nothing."

"Too bloody right," Elan snarled. "The teyrn did _nothing_." Her arm ached with the effort it took to hold her blade still...to resist the urge to thrust it through this man's arrogant, ignorant heart.

But killing a soldier in a crowded tavern...well...that was hardly the way to put paid to Loghain's claims about the Grey Wardens in the long run...even if it would stop _this_ man from repeating them.

Elan still had hopes that these men might someday realize that their good intentions and those of the Grey Wardens aligned. That and she was _tired_ of being the one forced to be constantly on guard for the next unexpected threat. It would be a relief to make those who threatened her feel a bit threatened in turn...even if it _was_ a bit fool-hardy.

She hauled the man to his feet in spite of the several inches of height he had over her, and stared him in the eye. "Take a message to Loghain: The Grey Wardens know what really happened." She shoved him toward the door, hard.

The man stumbled away obligingly, muttering assurances under his breath.

"I...wow...We're probably going to regret that later...you know that, right? But...by the Maker, didn't it feel _good_?" Alistair chuckled, seizing Elan by the waist and twirling her about in celebration. "You _are _fierce, you know? A little. It's a bit scary, but it's also...well..." _Cute. Magnificent. Perfect._ He regarded her in sudden bemusement.

The sister was staring at them. Alistair realized he and Elan were still standing close, his hand spanning her waist. He flushed and Elan flushed and they both stumbled backward, Alistair holding his hands wide as if to protest his innocence.

Morrigan made a sound of pure disgust.

Woofus gave a bark that sounded very much like chortling laughter.

The sister smirked.

"Um...thank you sister," Elan said, looking everywhere but at anyone. "I appreciate what you tried to do..."


	2. A Very Present Help

Notes--Some of the following dialogue has been taken from or modeled off of lines in DAO. I have tried to keep this to a minimum.

Title Reference: God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. -Bible (Old Testament) Psalms 46:1^2.

* * *

"And I am glad you found it in your heart to offer those men mercy," the sister returned gravely, in spite of the smile hovering around the corners of her mouth.

"I didn't let them go to be nice," Elan said flatly. _In fact, I let them go to start another, much bigger fight...one I'm not sure I can win. Alistair is right—we're going to regret it. _

"Mercy can be swift and terrible as a sword," the sister said, "and yet be mercy still."

"Death—as an end to suffering—can be merciful as well, can it not?" Morrigan interjected mockingly. "Was prolonging the inevitable so merciful in truth?"

"Yes," the sister retorted staunchly. "If not to those men themselves, then surely to their families. But, I digress. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lelianna, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering. Or I was."

_Was? What is that supposed to mean? _Elan thought skeptically._ I didn't realize people stopped being sisters once they'd started...kind of like templars. _She sighed. "And was there something you wanted?" _There had to be, given the way you were hovering over us, even before those men showed up...and the way things have been going lately, I doubt I'm going to like it._

"Those men said you were a Grey Warden," the sister said, apparently feeling the need to lead up to whatever she wanted to ask them. That didn't bode well, in and of itself. Whatever she wanted must be big.

Elan didn't respond.

Neither did Alistair.

Not that they needed to. The answer was all too obvious given the scene they'd all just enacted.

"You will be battling the darkspawn, yes?" the sister prompted. "That is what Grey Wardens do? After what happened, you will need all the help you can get. That is why I'm coming with you."

"And just why would you want to help us?" Elan asked suspiciously. The sister had approached them even before the soldiers had spoken. It was unlikely, but not beyond belief, that Loghain had sent her to keep tabs on them...but surely such a move was grossly out of proportion to the threat she and Alistair—even with the help of Flemeth and Morrigan—actually represented?

The sister paused, as if trying to gauge the effect of what she was about to say. Then, she relaxed suddenly, as if throwing caution to the wind. "The Maker told me to join you," she blurted out. "Surely he would not do so without good reason."

"Right..." Oh, this was _sooo _much worse than even a blessing would have been. "I believe this is where I back away slowly..."

The sister reached out as if to stop her. "I—I know that sounds absolutely insane!"

"Oh, well, as long as you know," Elan muttered.

If the sister heard the remark, she ignored it. "But it's true!" she insisted, leaning closer to Elan, her face alight. "I had a dream...a vision!"

"More crazy?" Alistair observed in a stage-whisper. "I thought we were all full up."

"What you do, what you are meant to do, is the Maker's work," the sister insisted. "Let me help!"

So much worse than the blessing. A whole repository of them. A walking blessing...following her—following them—about... "We need more than prayers, I'm afraid," Elan said firmly, meaning that what she wanted was to avoid them.

"I can fight," the sister reminded her. "I can do more than fight. I...put aside that life when I came here, but now...if it is the Maker's will, I will take it up again. Gladly. Please, let me help you."

_No doubt my inability to think of a good reason to refuse is a sign, _Elan reflected unhappily. _And if prayers are dangerous, shunning aid when the Maker offers it is no doubt more dangerous still..._

"I suppose we are stronger together," she admitted reluctantly.

"Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than mother thought," Morrigan said acidly.

_Perhaps._ "I will not turn away help when it is offered," Elan said, reminding herself more than Morrigan.

Lelianna clasped her hands together with a gasp of delight that bordered on a squeal. "Thank you! I appreciate being given this chance! I will not let you down."

"Yes, well," Elan said, trying to regain her mental balance, "have you eaten? We were just about to."

"Save me something, please? I'm going to fetch my things—before you change your mind," the sister said.

"While you're there..." Elan pressed the key Ser Bryant had given her into the sister's hand, figuring she would have a better chance of knowing what it opened, and of opening said container without raising any undue suspiscion.

She might have expected the sister to raise a protest at the idea of...appropriating chantry supplies without official permission, but perhaps the sister assumed Elan's possession of the key was a sort of tacit permission...as, indeed, it was, because she only nodded and departed.

The crowd in the tavern seemed doing its best to give them a wide berth...and avoid looking them in the eye...not that Elan could blame after their little performance. It was surprisingly easy to find a small table tucked into a corner near the bar.

"So," Alistair said, as the barmaid they'd flagged down headed back to the kitchen, "as I was saying before Morrigan nearly got us all arrested...what's the plan?"


	3. Hold Fast to Truth

Chapter Title Reference: "Therefore, be ye lamps unto yourselves, be a refuge to yourselves. Hold fast to Truth as a lamp; hold fast to the truth as a refuge. Look not for a refuge in anyone beside yourselves. And those, who shall be a lamp unto themselves, shall betake themselves to no external refuge, but holding fast to the Truth as their lamp, and holding fast to the Truth as their refuge, they shall reach the topmost height." --Buddha

Notes--Some of the following dialogue has been taken from or modeled off of lines in DAO. I have tried to keep this to a minimum.

I may eventually expand this chapter a bit (which would probably result in some redistribution between this chapter and chapter 2--which is a bit short right now)...or I may not. We'll have to see where the wind takes me.

* * *

"Well..." Elan said slowly, trying to find words, "I thought we might linger here a day or two."

"Just to make a point?" Alistair asked a bit disapprovingly. "Don't get me wrong, I love flouting the Chantry's attempts to control me, but I doubt the Blight is going to improve with age."

"Well...not _just_ to make a point," Elan reassured him. "I thought we might peruse the Chanter's Board, see if there's any money to be made...We need—"

"Ah, the Chantry Board," Morrigan sneered. "Yes, let us run errands for the betterment of mankind as well as a few coppers."

"Let's." Elan retorted, leaning back on the bench and crossing her arms over her chest, her grey eyes suddenly steely. "After all, weren't you the one pointing out how handy coin would be in procuring goods and information? Do you think we will need more or less of those in the days to come? Would you refuse to do what is necessary simply because it might look as though you took pity on someone else?"

"Pity is a weakness, and one we can ill-afford," Morrigan reminded her coolly. "You would do well to remember that, Warden." She eyed Alistair pointedly. "Both of you. You are right, however, that appearances matter far less than results...even if the appearance of weakness can prove dangerous. If the mundane kindnesses of the Chanter's Board are a means to achieving an end—that of the Blight—I will suffer them in silence."

"I don't object to offering these people what little aid we have to give," Alistair agreed, "especially since you make a good point about the money. As long as we're back on the road to Redcliffe soon. We wouldn't want to keep the archdemon waiting or anything."

Much to Elan's relief, the barmaid returned with a heavily-laden tray and passed around mugs of ale, plates of bread and cheese and slices of cold, cured meats. She had even remembered a large, meaty bone, which Elan slid under the table for Woofus.

There was a long pause as they all proceeded to eat with gusto.

But, eventually, Elan knew she had to stop delaying the inevitable.

"Look, Alistair, I know you're anxious to get to Redcliffe," she began uncomfortably. "I'm worried about the Arl myself. But...I think it might be wise for us to pay the Circle a visit first."

Morrigan looked equal parts disgusted and intrigued. Alistair looked surprised bordering on indignant.

Elan held up a hand to forestall comment. "I know the arl's reputation as a fair and just man, but...keep in mind,Teyrn Loghain was also regarded as a great man...and a hero."

"Arl Eamon would never do what he did!" Alistair protested, sounding utterly convinced. "I know him too well for that." He hung his head and muttered something that sounded like _I should, anyway, seeing as how he raised me._ Any other time, Elan's curiousity would have seized that like Woofus snatched a bone. But—tempted as she was—she couldn't afford the distraction just now.

"I am willing to believe he will give us a hearing if he is able—" guilt caught at Elan's voice as Alistair's face contorted with worry, "But...even if he does...I was there—at Ostagar—and I can _still_ scarcely believe Loghain deliberately quit the field. At first, when he didn't come, I thought there had been some mistake or mishap—he was taken by surprise or...he hadn't seen our signal...I wondered if..."

"We were to blame?" Alistair asked, looking as sick as she felt, trapped between guilt and denial. "I wondered too...but, you _know_ that signal had to be visible for miles! Even if it was late, when he saw it, he should have come! You know he should have come! You..._you_ tried to tell _me _something was wrong. But I didn't want to listen. I was sure Loghain would come. I was sure he _was _coming...because he'd always come to the rescue before. He was Loghain the hero, Loghain the invincible..."

"And he may well still be as far as Arl Eamon knows," Elan said flatly. "All the more so if they once fought together against Orlais. Why—" _would he believe us over a comrade in arms, a man he has—by definition—trusted with his very life?_

"Would Loghain betray the country he helped to save? Leave the son of a king who held him as a brother, a boy who had known and loved him from the time he was in swaddling clothes, to die?" Alistair supplied instead, the words ragged with grief. "I didn't know when Morrigan told me he had, and I still don't."

Elan nodded grimly. "And without such an answer, why should the arl believe our words anything more than an empty denial of the guilt Loghain insists we harbor? If we claim Loghain seeks to blame us for his sins, as—all doubts aside—we know he does, how is the arl to know we don't simply seek to blame ours on Loghain? As Ser Bryant and the Revered Mother made all too clear...it seems nothing more than outrageous claims and unreasonable assertions on either side."

"You're right." Alistair frowned. "Why do you have to be right?"

"Sorry?" Elan rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. "But...the mages of the Circle were at Ostagar; they were on the field. Some of them had to have seen what happened—or what didn't happen. If any of them survived, they've probably started back to the Circle by now—"

"And why would this arl of yours be any more likely to believe you simply because some tame mage tells him he should?" Morrigan scoffed.

"He might not," Elan conceded. "But at least the mage would seem to have less to gain from a lie than either the Wardens or Loghain. Surely that ought to count for something? And...some of those mages at Ostagar were healers...if one of them could help cure the arl's illness...that ought to earn some points in our favor as well, don't you think?"

"Well, when you put it like that..." Alistair groaned, "I suppose we're off to visit the mages. Great. They just love me."

"No wonder they're kept under lock and key. Truly one fears for their sanity as well as their safety," sneered Morrigan.

"Thank you, Alistair." Elan said gratefully, rolling her eyes in Morrigan's direction, "we'll continue on to Redcliffe as quickly as we can. You have my word."


	4. A Matter of Semantics

Note--For once, the dialogue is mostly my own.

Thanks to all who have added me to favorites or alerts, and thanks to those few kind souls who have reviewed. Feedback is always welcome, and often helps keep the writing process in motion.

I think there is at least one more chapter I'm likely to add after this one, and there may be two.

Title Reference: All our work, our whole life is a matter of semantics, because words are the tools with which we work, the material out of which laws are made, out of which the Constitution was written. Everything depends on our understanding of them.  
Felix Frankfurter

* * *

Elan whispered something in the barmaid's ear, and pointed at a plate of food she'd set aside. The barmaid nodded. Elan added a silver to the little pile of coins she'd handed her, then took the chunk of bread off the plate and broke it in half. She put half back and broke the half in her hand in half again, tucking half the meat and cheese from the plate between the two pieces, and began to wrap the whole construction in napkin.

"Food for the road, huh?" Alistair asked indulgently. "I'm flattered you're trying to emulate me and all, but it's really better to take things that travel well, you know...like dried meat and fruit...though cheese is always nice."

"Excellent advice," Elan said. "But I don't intend to be carrying this long. I'm merely taking it on the off-chance that lay sister...or whatever she was...happens to catch up to us. After all we promised—well, actually, we didn't _promise_, but we implied—we'd save her something to eat," she explained, stowing the bundle in her pack.

Alistair stared at her with an expression of confused disbelief, making the heat rise in her cheeks.

"Okay, to be fair, _you_ didn't even imply anything," she continued as if trying to be soothing. "That was all me. I'm just trying to be a woman of my word...even if the word wasn't exactly spoken."

"Oh, in that case...wait." Alistair blinked. "We're leaving without her? What about the words you _actually_ spoke, then? Shouldn't you be keeping _them_?"

Elan gifted him with a look so pure, so innocent, it looked about as real as a gilt-wood copper. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know full well you said she could join us," Alistair said, trying to be severe—and almost succeeding. It was damned hard to manage when that look of hers—not to mention the mischievous spark smoldering in the sooty depths of her eyes—made him want to snicker...or...kiss he—snicker.

Elan shrugged. "I told her she could come with us. I never told her we'd wait here for her indefinitely."

"That's rather a nasty trick of semantics," Alistair protested. Though he couldn't help but be a _little _impressed by her cleverness. A very little. Hardly at all, really.

"I'm merely being considerate," Elan insisted. "In case you hadn't noticed, this place is getting more crowded by the second. I'm sure the barkeep would appreciate it if we'd make way for paying customers...or people that _might_ be paying customers, anyway," she added, her natural honesty getting the better of her argument. "It's time to move on. If the sister returns she'll find food waiting for her. If she catches up to us, well...then I'll keep my word. But—with luck—she's changed her mind...or at least been distracted by something shiny. She's certainly been gone long enough."

It was a shame she hadn't been thinking of giving the sister the slip when she'd handed over that key...she certainly hated to sacrifice whatever Ser Bryant had tried to donate to their cause, but everything had a price...and if that was the price she had to pay to avoid thinking about the Maker and his _blessings_, so be it.

If what she did—was doing—was the Maker's work...then everything leading up to it had to be his work as well...her blood pounded in her ears at the very idea, threatening to override her vision with a dark, black-red haze of rage. Her stomach roiled. "Let's just get a move on before the owner decides he never liked his grandfather that much anyway and asks us to pay damages," she snarled.

Alistair blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in mood, then shrugged. "After you, my lady," he said a bit satirically.

Even as they'd eaten, the press of people in the tavern had gotten tighter. It was actually a bit difficult to push their way to the door.

Of course, the sister _had_ to be coming out of the chantry just as they were walking past.

_Another blessing, no doubt,_ Elan thought, letting loose a half-hysterical bark of laughter that had Alistair, Woofus, Morrigan, and the sister all looking at her as if she were the one having visions.

"There you are!" Alistair exclaimed wildly. "The tavern was getting pretty crowded without those ill-tempered soldiers about, so we thought we'd collect you on our way out of town." He coughed anxiously, shooting Elan and Morrigan a warning look. Elan flushed. Morrigan smirked. "Elan brought your dinner—just like she promised—see?" He thrust an uninvited hand into Elan's pack. "We even saved you some of the cheese! It's nothing to write home about, but, still—cheese is cheese, am I right?"

"Um...thank you," the sister said uncertainly, jostling the rather over-stuffed pack, a beautifully-shaped-and-oiled bow, a quiver of arrows, and a bedroll she carried in order to take the bundle too—gingerly, as if she feared it might bite.

"This is all very enlightening, to be sure," Morrigan said snidely. "Little as it does toward finding a place to lay our heads."

"Looks like we'll just have to head to the outskirts of town and camp like everyone else," Elan said ruefully. "Which wouldn't be so bad...if we'd purchased supplies before the merchants closed up for the night. That'll teach me not to think with my stomach."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Alistair advised, but he was grinning.

Elan cuffed him on the shoulder. "I didn't hear you protesting at the time," she informed him tartly. "And you ate more than I did."

"You also didn't hear me say I'd learn to stop thinking with my stomach," Alistair retorted, his grin broadening.

"A good thing," Morrigan commented, "As 'tis the only part of him with which he thinks at all."

"Oh, ha, ha, very funny," Alistair said.

Morrigan raised her eyebrows. "A compliment to be sure, seeing as how I am not the one who strives to be witty. I am however, capable of putting a thing to use when I see an opportunity...so I will remind you we left a camp ready and waiting for us to occupy it...assuming it hasn't already been overrun like this wretched town. Which possibility only grows more likely the longer we stand here gaping, no?"

"You have a camp already, then?" the sister asked. "And you left it unattended?"

Apparently even _her _belief in mercy and goodness didn't quite extend to believing that some poor refugee wouldn't move right into a waiting camp the moment the chance arrived. Not that Morrigan, Elan, or even Alistair was likely to blame anyone for acting on that particular impulse...which meant, of course, that the sister certainly wouldn't.

"We didn't have much choice once that templar got ahold of us," Elan explained wryly. "Especially since the camp isn't—wasn't—ours, exactly...but I reckon Morrigan's right—killing the former occupants should give us first dibs."

"I...see," the sister said slowly.

Elan grinned in spite of herself, recognizing the inflection. It seemed she and the sister did have at least _one_ thing in common. Subtext.

"They were bandits," Alistair elaborated nervously. "They attacked us, first. Honest."

"Quite considerate of them, really," Elan said flippantly. "Seeing as how their deaths seem to be the gift that keep on giving—I wonder what that says about _mercy_?"

"Oh do tell me you're not about to begin moralizing," Morrigan groaned impatiently. "I thought you had more sense! Clearly, I was mistaken, however, as it seems I must remind you—the longer we dally, the less likely we are to find the camp unoccupied."

"Why waste time trying to claim something that could aid some poor soul in need?" the sister interjected quietly, her face thoughtful.

"Haven't you been listening?" Elan asked crisply. "_We_ are in need."

"Ah, but what if I said I knew someone who could help us?"

"The Revered Mother, no doubt," Elan said wryly. "You'll pardon me if I don't hold my breath."

"What? No...not her, but—"

"She seemed to think having Grey Wardens about might cause trouble," Alistair elaborated with an almost breezy air of innocence maligned. "Though I can't imagine where she could have gotten that idea."

The sister smiled slightly.

Elan made a noise that might have been a stifled chuckle. Or a snort of disgust. Or a bark of irritation. Or some strange hybrid of the three.

"Yes...well, I was actually refering to Elder Miriam," the sister informed them. "She's been organizing the refuges, and she's quite a wonder. She'll know of some place we can rest for the night."

"Wouldn't that be taking aid from others more in need even more surely than appropriating that bandit camp would be?" Elan asked skeptically.

"Ah, but as you point out...we, too, are in need," the sister replied with a winning smile. "I simply suggest we fulfil our needs where we are and allow some other poor soul to do likewise. That is not so bad, surely?"


	5. Allison's Barn

Do not let a flattering woman coax and wheedle you and deceive you; she is after your barn.  
Hesiod

* * *

Elder Miriam had set up a sort of makeshift office across from the tavern on the outskirts of town. "Are you in need of a place to stay?" she demanded as they approached.

"Well, _that_ was easy," Elan muttered uncomfortably. Nothing lately had been easy...she couldn't help feeling a bit...well, threatened by the sudden change, even though a part of her already knew she ought to just relax and appreciate such a rare occurrence while she could.

"Well, speak up," Miriam rapped impatiently. "I think there's space in Allison's barn."

"Yes, we'll probably need shelter for..." the sister trailed off, looking to the rest of the group for direction.

"We thought we'd stay a couple of days," Elan told her. "But if space is dear, we could always clear and make camp tomorrow after we purchase supplies."

"A couple of days," the sister said brightly, as if the Elder hadn't just heard Elan say the same thing.

The Elder nodded. "A couple of days should be fine. Mind you don't leave a mess or burn down the barn."

"Thank you for your assistance, Elder," the sister said sweetly. Part of Elan admired her technique and part of her wanted to grit her teeth.

"Is there any way we can help you in return?" Elan interjected, feeling almost impelled to prove that she, too, could be considerate...in spite of all evidence to the contrary, and feeling more than a little resentful of the sister—and herself—for making her want to appear sweet, when she really wasn't particularly, and had no real desire to be. Sweetness only attracted flies after all.

The Elder eyed Elan with a similar skepticism, taking in her ragged hair, the blood on her armor, the dull glint of the daggers crossed against her back. "Don't have much need for blades," she said laconically.

"Oh, really?" Elan snapped. "Funny. I thought your little village was about to be overrun by darkspawn."

The sister kicked her—actually kicked her—as if warning her to be silent. Elan crossed her arms over her chest and fumed, fully annoyed to have a generous gesture she hadn't even wanted to make thrown back in her face, and even more fully annoyed to realize that most people had no idea—no idea at all—of just how literally a blade's edge was often all that stood between life and certain death. Most frustrating of all was how recently she'd been one of those people, in spite of all her training...and how desperately she wished she still could be.

"Please," the sister said in such mellow and beseeching tones that Elan's irritation and resentment began to melt, "My...friend...was simply asking if there was any small item or service you need that we might provide as a token of our...appreciation."

"Don't suppose you know anything about herbs?"

"I...don't," the sister admitted, glancing around at the group.

"Only if you're referring to poisons," Elan said, only the smallest sliver of her wicked grin escaping. "But..."

"I have some knowledge of healing herbs," Morrigan said, her frigid glare making it quite clear Elan owed her a great deal for the admission, even if she _had _been a bit tickled to see the acknowledgment of her own earlier crack about poisons glinting in Elan's eyes as they met hers.

"Then you might be able to do a lot of good," the Elder said. Morrigan scoffed eloquently in reply. Elan stifled the urge to laugh. Alistair looked bored and a bit sleepy. The sister just looked confused. "There are healing herbs on the outskirts of town. If you could gather them and make a few poultices—"

"No need." Morrigan said shortly. The sister looked at her in hot protest, Elan with surprise, Alistair with exasperation. "I am carrying a supply of poultices I've already made," she continued, making her companions' expressions morph in a most amusing way. "Will five be sufficient?"

"Why, yes," the Elder said, sounding less startled than most of the other witnesses to this odd exchange. "You're a good sort, you know?"

Alistair choked. Elan pounded him on the back and grinned. The sister looked at them both as if they'd gone mad. Morrigan sniffed, but otherwise proceeded to ignore them all. Alistair and Elan began to laugh even harder, leaving the sister even more confused as she led them to the barn, which happened to be just next to the bridge they'd crossed multiple times that day.

Elan made a beeline for the hayloft. She'd always had a certain fascination with haylofts. They just looked so...so cozy. And mysterious. A rather irresistible combination. Alistair followed her as far as the ladder, then paused as if he was rethinking the situation and in search of an alternative.

Morrigan had already taken possession of the largest stall. She gave Alistair a warning glare.

The sister had wandered into the only other stall not currently occupied by rather astonished oxen. She looked meditative, far less approachable...and far less familiar than Elan...

Woofus looked at Alistair and gave a short, advisory bark. Then, with a longer, happier bark, he took a running leap and thudded into the hayloft next to Elan, sending bits of hay showering about in a cloud of nose-tickling sweet scent, worming into the drifts of hay on his stomach, looking ecstatic. Elan chuckled and reached out to scratch his belly.

Alistair sighed, shrugged, and climbed the ladder, settling down on the mabari's other side.

Elan pulled off her boots and tossed them into the corner where they hit the wall with a thud. She began tugging at the straps of her armor.

Alistair swallowed hard, remembering the _last _time she'd taken her armor off, and tried not to wonder whether she had as little—or even less—on underneath _this_ time.

He peered over the edge of the loft in desperate need of distraction, and caught sight of Morrigan. "She looks like she's about to hang a cauldron over a fire and start cackling, doesn't she?" Alistair observed. He could hear scuffling as Elan shifted to pull her padded leather chausses over her legs."She has to be up to no good."

Elan chuckled. Alistair glanced over...cautiously...and was relieved—or was it disappointed?—to see that her tunic was the plain blue woolen one of the mages in camp had given her. It was just as stained and inexpertly mended as his own, but relatively unrevealing, and a simple pair of blue linen braies covered her legs.

Alistair looked away, suddenly embarrassed to have noticed—or cared to notice—what a fellow Grey Warden was wearing, and began tugging at the straps of his own breastplate.

Elan glanced at her carefully-discarded armor with a sigh. "It really ought to be cleaned." She paused, frowned thoughtfully to herself. "Why am I always saying that? And...since I am—always saying that, I mean—why do I never seem to have the proper supplies?"

"Oh, how unfortunate," the sister piped from below, but nearby. "Perhaps you would like to borrow my supplies?"

"Oh, um..."

"Such lovely armor shouldn't be mistreated," the sister pressed.

Memory surged. Her birthday, the day she came of age...Father beaming, mother looking more morose than happy, and trying hard to hide it. The two of the leading her to the family armory, recounting stories of how they'd met during the war for independence. She could see her father produce his well-guarded, well-worn key, open the inner door...

The memory carried the same impact as the original moment, leaving her dazed. It seemed she even remembered nothing for several seconds now, just as it had taken her several stunned minutes then to realize the suit of heavy chain armor that usually hung there, the armor father himself had worn in the war he'd just been recounting...was missing...and in its place...

Elan reached out and stroked the smooth leather planes of her cuirass, remembering the sea-colored glow of it on the stand, not quite blue, not quite green, not quite grey...she traced a finger along the raised knotwork at the neck, just as she had then, still not quite believing...

Then she had not quite believed in its beauty, this armor...and she still didn't...but now...now she didn't believe just how much it had come not only to represent her life and her choices, but to be necessary to maintaining her right to either.

A touch on her shoulder...but the hand was not the same as it had been then, not her father's, but broader, firmer, the touch more tentative, but somehow both comforting and tender...and strangely familiar, as if she had experienced it before...even recently. Alistair. The sweetness and the sorrow threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

She reached up and threaded her fingers through his, silently reassuring him and thanking him at the same time. "I...thank you..." she called out huskily, and wondered if her voice was too low to carry.

"Happy to help," the sister said from the ladder.

Alistair squeezed her shoulder slightly and pulled away to continue removing his armor. Elan had never before realized that at some point in her training, the sound had become so familiar it was comforting. But it had, and it was.

Elan took the cloths,the flask of water, the bottle of special soap, the stoppered bottle of oil, the flask of water, the pot of wax from the sister's extended hands, trying to think of what to say. It wasn't easy, especially given both her reluctance to like anyone who claimed the current situation was the work of the Maker and her feelings of guilt over her inability to accept—or even appreciate—someone who'd been nothing but kind and apparently wanted nothing but to help.

"Sweet dreams," the sister said, then looked rather taken aback, as if she'd said something shocking. "Uh, I mean...sleep well?"

"Erm...okay..." Elan said awkwardly, unable to resist the urge to look over her shoulder toward Alistair, as if asking him to rescue her, but he was absorbed in examining a particularly impressive hole in his left sock.

"See you in the morning?" The sister said, just quizzically enough to make her point.

"Oh," Elan said, feeling rather as if she'd been slapped. This sister was not at all what she appeared, and damned if Elan wasn't tempted to admire her for it. Even if the sister did keep throwing her off-balance. "Yes, of course."


	6. Precious Privilege

**When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive - to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.  
Marcus Aurelius**

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**Disclaimer**- As much as I wish otherwise, I do not own DAO. I do not own any of the characters therein, including the female Cousland origin character, though I would like to think my interpretation of her is my own. I do not own the environment, events, dialogue, etc. I expect and will receive nothing from this story but the joy of paying homage to excellence. (Imitation, after all, is sincere flattery.)

Nonetheless, I do work hard on my little stories, and I love them. Please don't repost or reprint them without my knowledge.

Further, like all fanfic writers, I am fueled by reviews. If you like and want more, please encourage me by telling me so. If you see something you dislike or think needs to be fixed, I will be happy to learn...but please be gentle!

**Note- **This fic is part of my _**DA:O Fragment Fics**_ collection. These are little pieces of what or may not eventually become a longer, more comprehensive fic. If I waited until that fic was in a condition to post, I would never post at all, and I want to post.

Thanks to everyone who has added me or any of these fics to favorites or alerts. I really appreciate the interest.

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She woke to the soft, pattering of rain on the roof overhead.

"Ah, you're awake too, then? Nice and cozy here, heh? Much better than some drafty tent near a fire that would rather smoke than burn, don't you think?" Alistair murmured near her ear.

Elan, wondering if this was a gentle remonstrance against the way she had tried to ditch the divine sister who'd finagled their lodgings, had the grace to blush. Darkly.

"Ah," Alistair said, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back in the hay, "this brings back memories." Either he hadn't noticed her reaction or he had and was content with his point, giving her the gift of her dignity by pretending he hadn't. He'd surely expect her to believe the first, but Elan tended to suspect him of the second. Which was, when all was said and done, in her mind rather to his credit.

Elan stretched out beside him, inhaling the sweet, clean, grassy scent of the hay. "Does it?"

Alistair nodded. "I used to sleep in the stable more often than not when I was-uh, that is at..uh..."

"Oh?" Elan replied, raising an eyebrow against a sudden wave of curiosity that threatened to overcome her. "At the Chantry?"

"Not... exactly..." Alistair murmured, looking supremely uncomfortable. "Not literally. But, uh, you could say so... metaphorically."

"So... you're saying you spent a lot of time... in the doghouse, then?" Elan suggested with slow skepticism. She smirked. "I can't say I'm surprised."

Alistair rolled over on his belly, reaching out to tickle her nose with the straw.

She snorted in surprise, batting a hand at her nose, and squirmed, managing to inch just far enough back to avoid the second sweep of the straw.

"Ah, ah, ah, now that I've got you, I'm not about to let you escape that easily!" Alistair admonished, rolling toward her with a roguish flourish of the straw.

"Oh," Elan gasped in protest, tucking her chin and scrunching her whole body to scrabble below the sweep of the straw... so that it only managed to graze the top of an ear in a way that made her start a bit with surprise. "Looks like the reverend mother taught you something in templar training, after all!"

"Heeey," Alistair paused, straw upheld like a scepter, regarding her with such a look of affront his hands might as well have been planted solidly on his hips. It was a look so strongly and so strangely reminiscent of Orianna at her most disapproving that Elan didn't know whether to weep or laugh.

Her breath caught.

Alistair's eyes darkened, their usual warm amber shadowed-with sorrow and sympathy?- and brightened, with something less familiar, something both exciting and dangerous, something she thought might be desire, slid across her skin like whisky sliding down her throat, warm and tingling, filling her with a strangely pleasant langor, as if she had just slid into a hot bath after a long, hard day of sword-play and mabari battle exercises.

Suddenly, heavy drops of rain broke through the thatching of the roof, splashing across her face like cooling kisses, clinging to her eyelashes like tears, or maybe, just maybe, dazzling her vision with sparkling stars. Elan blinked, feeling dazed.

Alistair chuckled softly, shifting his weight in the straw, sending up a cloud of mellow scent, and leaned in close, reaching up to brush his thumb across her eyelashes and the bridge of her nose.

Time stopped, or maybe it was just her breath. It was funny, how she didn't know for sure.

Funny how, suddenly, the only thing she seemed to be aware of was his hand cupping her cheek, his eyes on her face, his lips over hers…

A muffled thump sounded a little distance away and below them-probably near the entrance of the barn. Woofus reared up out of the straw with a huffed "woof," some mixture of surprise, warning, and protest at this interruption to his nap. Of course, Alistair had been-quite unintentionally-leaning across the space above the mabari, and the unexpected impetus of the dog's movement sent him lurching backwards, flailing his arms about his head as if his balance were a butterfly he could catch in mid-flight.

Elan wished this was some simple lover's tryst at Highever-not that she'd ever had such a thing, though she might have imagined them once or twice. And now those dreams were things that would never be. It would have been a miracle beyond measure just to be able to sit back and laugh. But laughter was a luxury they could ill afford, and her fingers were already closing around the hilt of her sword.

"Oh, oh, _flames_!" a soft, vaguely familiar voice muttered softly.

Elan frowned into the dark open space beyond the hay loft. "Uh… sister...Leliana…?"

"Um, yes?" the voice returned hesitantly. "Good morning? I didn't mean to wake you… exactly… but… look!"

Elan, not yet quite ready to relinquish her hold on the hilt of her sword, inched forward, dragging it with her, and squinted, peering down into the dark and shadowy depths of the barn.

The sister's red hair blazed up at her, vaguely illuminating the arms she held upraised in front of her face. There, clutched in her hands, were a precarious little tumble of small, smooth white objects that seemed to gleam like pearls in the stormy perhaps-early-morning light. "Breakfast!" the sister crowed triumphantly.

"Well," Elan said slowly, uncomfortably aware that her stomach did feel rather empty now that she'd taken time to think about it, and not at all sure she liked that food did indeed seem to be a rather reliable currency with which to purchase her affections, let alone that everyone around her seemed to be completely aware of the fact and more than willing to use it to their advantage at any-or maybe at each and every-moment.

"Aren't you just full of surprises?"

"Oh," the sister said softly, looking alarmingly close to dropping the eggs as she lowered her arms. "Aren't you sweet-flattery will get you everywhere, of course!"

"I'll just bet I know where it's going to get me in the end," Elan muttered under her breath, even more annoyed to notice that Alistair-with apparently no thought whatever to caution-was already scrambling down the ladder with enthusiasm.


End file.
